


Tales of Tails and other Things

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Fur and Feathers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Christmas Fluff, Fox!Lestrade is not a dog, M/M, Mycroft is a tease, Owlcroft, Silver Fox Lestrade, Werefoxes, gun porn - a bit not good but still sexy, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random selection of one-shots in relation to all stories within this 'verse... Here, you will see bushy tails in need of grooming, ruffled feathers in need of smoothing, piano playing, cello playing, gun porn (a bit not good but still sexy), fussy ex-snipers and stubborn policemen. In short - all that's good and fun about the Silver Fox and the Owl.</p><p>I will scribble down everything that comes to mind, and will add 'Fox!Lestrade', 'Owl!Mycroft' and 'Fox + Owl' to each chapter's title so you can tell them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where the treetops glisten... (Fox!Lestrade)

Mycroft stepped a few feet away from the Christmas tree, squinted his eyes and checked for patches too bright or too dark.  A small adjustment here, a minor correction there and the strings of clear little lights made the medium-sized tree sparkle in perfect symmetry.  He opened the box that held the tree ornaments, inspected its contents and nodded, satisfied with Mrs Jennings’ choice of colours and style.  For once, he had not entrusted Anthea alone with a task of such delicacy, certain that her preference of Christmas trees decked in clear, icy and metallic colours would not meet with Greg’s approval.  His Bonded preferred a more homey and cosy Christmas concept that included the smell of Christmas baking and Christmas songs both modern and classic, and only last week Mycroft had caught him watching an appalling adaptation of the equally appalling story of ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’.  Greg had not appeared to be even remotely embarrassed.  Instead, he had cheerfully stated that his was his first happy Christmas in ages and had pulled Mycroft in for a thorough kiss, bestowing some Christmas cheer on him as well.

So yes, the classic red and gold Christmas baubles, small wooden merry-go-rounds and straw stars were definitely the decoration of choice, and trusting Mrs Jennings to go out of her way to make her favourite policeman happy had so far proven to be trust well invested.

An excited bark made him glance outside, and he stifled a laugh.  Greg was running and jumping across the lawn of their Cornwall home, a brown Rabbit in fierce pursuit.  He had no idea who the Rabbit was and Greg had only shrugged, saying it was some young lad from the village who liked to play.  Mycroft hoped for the Rabbit’s sake that he only wanted to play with the Fox and not with the man.  Not that Greg seemed interested in playing with anyone but his Bonded but one could never be too sure about the intention of others. 

Fox and Rabbit seemed to be having a good enough time with things being as they were, however.  Greg crouched down low and the Rabbit jumped over his back in one giant leap.  He tried to chase Greg’s tail, but the Fox ducked out of the way and ran across the lawn at lightning speed.

Mycroft shook his head and chuckled as he spared a few moments to watch Greg get in touch with his inner seven-year-old, then turned and started wrapping the tree with golden bead garlands, distributing them evenly on the outer branches.  Christmas tree baubles and merry-go-rounds were put up next, and he stepped back after every fourth or fifth item, critically inspecting placement and colour combination.  Not too much red or gold in one spot?  Merry-go-rounds well placed among the shiny balls?  Again, his sharp eyes identified even the smallest imperfection and he took a golden ball from this twig, replaced with a smaller red one, and hung a tiny straw star just there.  When the tree was decorated in flawless harmony, Mycroft nodded to himself, pleased with his work.

He had just put the boxes away when a scratch at the back door announced Greg’s return.  He opened the door and the Fox shot inside.

_::Can you believe that, the little shit jumped on my back and asked to be carried back to the village because he was too tired to run. Do I look like a bloody… oh!::_

He stopped dead in his tracks and stood in the sitting room door, taking in the view.

_::The tree! It’s done! It’s beautiful! Why didn’t you wait for me?::_

“Because I wanted to surprise you?” Mycroft offered, hoping he hadn’t given cause for disappointment and nodded towards the small coffee table where one final box still waited to be opened.

“This one’s yours. The finishing touch.”

Greg Shifted and reached for his bathrobe that had been neatly placed on the couch, cocked an inquisitive eyebrow, slipped the robe on and went to pick the box up, very carefully, opened it and peered inside.

“Oh,” he said again, softly, took out a sparkling golden star and turned it in his hands so he could look at it from all angles.  “That’s just like the one my Gran used to put on top of her Christmas trees.” He blinked rapidly and for a moment just stood there, looking at the star, lost in memories. 

Mycroft held his breath.  He had paid close attention when Greg had told him about his Gran and her baking and the joyful Christmas Days spent with her, and he had closely looked at the photos, too.  Finding a star just like that might have proven a bit tricky if not for the help of his assistant who seemed to hold degrees in online shopping and hunting down desired objects.  He hadn’t anticipated this reaction, however, and wasn’t quite sure what to do.

Greg took a deep breath, went to stand before the tree, reached up and very cautiously placed the star on the treetop.  He whispered something that Mycroft couldn’t make out and stepped back.  Mycroft closed the distance and came to stand behind him, putting his hands on Greg’s shoulders.  Greg leaned against his chest, took Mycroft’s hands from his shoulders and wrapped himself in his arms. 

“Happy Christmas, Gregory,” Mycroft said softly.

“Happy Christmas,” Greg replied in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.  Eyes on the star, fingers entwined with those of his Bonded, he gently added, “I love you.”  Whether those words were intended for him or whether they were meant for somebody else, Mycroft didn’t know.  And so he wordlessly pulled Greg a little closer and sent a thought to someone who once had meant the world to him, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. Fluff and a shot of sentimental, and I'm not apologizing.
> 
> You're never too old to miss your Grandma, so this first chapter is dedicated to mine because she was the coolest, bestest, awesomest Grandma a girl could have, my one true role model and inspiration. Miss you - always. Love you - forever.


	2. ... and Foxes listen (Fox!Lestrade)

Greg was lying curled up next to the fireplace in the sitting room, nose on his forearms, eyes closed, and listened to Mycroft play the piano.  A smaller version of the one back at the townhouse had found its way to the Cornwall home, and now the sitting room was slightly overcrowded with both a piano and a Christmas tree in it, but Greg could see no fault in that.

It hadn’t been hard to convince Mycroft their Cornwall home needed a piano, too, and given the fact that more time would be spent here in the foreseeable future, a trip to Chappell of Bond Street had been made and the instrument had been delivered a little over a week ago, just in time for the holidays. 

Getting his Bonded to play some Christmas songs for him had been a lot harder since Mycroft was not particularly fond of the festive season, quite unfamiliar with the concept of Christmas cheer, having grown up in surroundings that had not encouraged such sentimental nonsense.  In fact, the name Ebenezer Scrooge occasionally sprang to mind, and Greg kept waiting for him to slam the door and shout ‘bah, humbug’, but the older Holmes preferred to leave noise and drama to his younger brother.

******

“You want me to do _what_?”

Sherlock’s ever changing eyes fixed on Greg with such indignation that the older man had to stifle a laugh. 

“Please, Sherlock,” he managed with the barest hint of a tremor in his voice. “I can’t read music to save my life, and I really want to surprise Mycroft with something that attracts his interest despite his dislike for Christmas.”

“Why don’t you just drape yourself over the sodding piano with nothing but…” Sherlock began sourly but stopped himself in mid-sentence and added an even more disgusted tone to his voice, “oh wonderful, and isn’t this picture going to give me a brain tumour.”

If Mycroft was Ebenezer Scrooge, then Sherlock was the Grinch, and after shuddering some more over the hideous picture he had just painted for himself, he flung himself into a rant about wasting his time and Christmas being dull and sneered about commercialising an overrated superstition of religious nature.

“Please?” Greg gave him his best hurt puppy look. “You’re the only one I can think of who can help me pick something that meets Mycroft’s standards. I might end up buying trumpet lessons for kids because I can’t tell the little dots and lines apart.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, there’s usually pictures and some writing on the covers. Even you should be able to tell a trumpet from a piano,” Sherlock said dismissively, but one corner of his mouth twitched and Greg knew he had won.

“So you’ll come with me then?” he ventured hopefully.  Sherlock’s features softened ever so slightly and he graciously agreed to accompany Greg to Chappell’s where with lightning speed he assembled a variety of music sheets of both classical and popular content, and Greg could have sworn that at least one of them said ‘For Violin’ but he pretended not to notice and Sherlock pretended to be uninterested.

******

Mycroft had lifted his eyebrows – both of them, which usually meant he was genuinely surprised.

“I don’t mean to insult but these are very intricate and unusual arrangements. Where did you find them?”

“Let’s just say the idea of me buying music sheets by myself was enough to make the Cat laugh,” Greg had smiled, trusting Mycroft to get the hint, and had left it at that.

And so Mycroft Holmes had obediently sat down at the piano and had gone through the music, and so Greg ended up where he was, in front of a small fireplace, enjoying a healthy mix of holiday cheer and kitsch, a sparkling Christmas tree, and his beloved playing the piano.  How very unlike the many Christmases he had spent either by himself or at work, feeling depressed and angry at the same time.  He remembered one Christmas Eve sitting huddled under a sad excuse for a hedge, peering into a crowded living room with a party in full swing, wallowing in self-pity and loneliness until he had begun to feel pathetic beyond belief and had finally wandered off, disgusted with himself. 

How things had changed since then, and all because his own curiosity had taken him into one of London’s posh areas one night.  He sighed contentedly, at peace with himself and the universe.

Maybe John could persuade Sherlock to spend Christmas Day with them, and wouldn’t that be jolly, with the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge under one roof, battling each other for the last word.  He flicked one of his ears in amusement and Projected that very image to Mycroft who snorted and with a flowery improvisation launched into something that sounded suspiciously like a song that Greg was fairly sure had not been in the collection.

And the boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay   
And the bells were ringing out   
For Christmas day.

‘You're a bum you're a punk’?  Silent night indeed.

_::Scratch that. Maybe have them over for New Year’s Eve instead.::_

“No fireworks for Sherlock to play with.”

_::Agreed.::_


	3. M is for Mycroft (Fox!Lestrade)

“Gregory, a spy movie? Really?”

Mycroft eyed the poster unhappily and Greg nudged him.

“Come on, this is going to be fun. It’s supposed to be the best Bond ever.”

“Bond. James Bond,” Mycroft muttered, not convinced. “Takes his martini shaken, not stirred.”

“See? You already know the basics. Let’s go get the tickets. Please?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes in a very Holmesian way, huffed dramatically but followed Greg inside nevertheless.  Part of him wanted to remain adamant about not wanting to watch a spy movie, but he didn’t want to spoil the fun that Greg was obviously having… and a tiny part of him really, really wanted to watch a film in a cinema, and not on a plane or in his sitting room, despite the latter’s state of the art home entertainment equipment.

He resisted the temptation of popcorn and crisps but graciously accepted a small bag of chocolate-covered peanuts and a soft drink.  They settled into their seats and Greg happily started munching on his popcorn.

“You sure you don’t want any?” He laughed as Mycroft wrinkled his long nose in disgust and cheerfully said, “Never mind the sugar, Myc, you can make me burn it off later.”

The young woman sitting next to Greg looked him over curiously and Mycroft arched an arrogant eyebrow.  She turned and whispered something to her friend who shifted in her seat so she, too, could get a look, with the blithe lack of tact that only the very young and the very ignorant possess.  Mycroft edged a little closer and said in a deceptively silken voice, “To avoid any misunderstanding, my dear, I _will_ make him burn it all off, and it will be me, and me alone, who gets to lick the sweat off that glorious body afterwards.” He smiled sweetly into two very shocked female faces. “Are we clear?”

Greg tried his best to shrink a little in his seat, mortally embarrassed and ridiculously happy at the same time.  The undisguised possessiveness in Mycroft’s voice made a large portion of his blood rush south and he was glad he had decided to put his jacket across his thighs so potentially telltale signs were well hidden.

The woman shrugged. “Sure, whatever. Shame, though.”

“Quite the contrary,” Mycroft corrected and sat back, satisfied with himself.  When the lights were turned off and the previews started, Greg leaned closer and whispered, “That was hot. I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Please do.” The smile that flickered across Mycroft’s face was of an unmistakably smug quality and it took all of Greg’s willpower not to pull him in for a thorough kiss, but he was sure Mycroft wasn’t the person to appreciate public displays of affection so he merely squeezed his hand but let go right away, just in case.

They sat through the preview with remarkable self-discipline but when the film started, Greg couldn’t resist the temptation any longer and inched closer until their knees were touching, then Mycroft moved his arm just so and when their hands happened to touch, neither man pulled away, instead Mycroft hooked his little finger experimentally with Greg’s and they stayed like that for quite some time.  The moment Gareth Mallory appeared on the scene, however, Mycroft started and spilled his soft drink which made Greg snort with laughter, looking from the screen to Mycroft and back, earning him quite some ‘shhhh’ and very angry looks from his neighbours.  It got worse as the film progressed and Mallory’s influence and future role was developed and Greg had to press his hands to his mouth to keep the laughter in that would surely result in more ‘shhhh’.

When the film ended and they joined the crowd headed for the exit, he hooked his arm with Mycroft’s and said conversationally, “Well, Mr Mallory, how come you won’t talk about what you do but the script’s got you down to a tee? He’s even got braces and waistcoat, and he sounds a bit like you, too.”

Mycroft glared at him.

“Can we please not talk about this? I will have my people look into that.”

Greg threw his head back and laughed, letting go of Mycroft’s arm.

“Who wrote the script? Maybe I should have him placed under police protection.”

“He will be dealt with before you even had the chance to hand in the first approval form.”

That made Greg laugh even more, causing a group of younger women whisper and stare at them.  He caught ‘Ralph Fiennes’ and ‘George Clooney’ and gave them a wink when they passed them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watched 'Skyfall' again last weekend and the sight of Ralph Fiennes as Gareth Mallory made the fangirl in me shriek with pleasure. How could I have forgotten about his wonderful portrayal of the future M, and just who do you think popped up in my mind?


	4. Like this (Fox!Lestrade)

„Please tell me you’re joking.“ Mycroft put his newspaper down and looked at Greg with a stare so incredulous that his Bonded hung his head in embarrassment and mumbled something incomprehensible. If he had still been in his Fox shape, he would have flattened his ears. “Say that again?”

Greg cleared his throat and repeated, “I failed my firearms refresher course.”

“But why? Didn’t you say you weren’t doing too badly and you’ve never failed before?”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?” It came out angrier than he had intended, but the twitching lips of Mycroft Holmes – bloody ex military sniper – fired up his rage. “We can’t all be geniuses, and must I remind you I had a broken leg not too long ago.”

Mycroft tsked. “I do not recall running a half marathon was part of the course. I remember it consisted of standing still and firing at targets.”

“Whatever.” Greg snatched his jacket from the chair over which he had draped it and stomped out of the sitting room.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft called after him.

“Shift and run. Do something I’m good at.”

A door was slammed and a Shield snapped shut, and Mycroft picked up his newspaper and continued reading.  Greg’s temper flared quickly but he calmed down just as quickly if left alone for a while.  Picking a fight was not what Mycroft had in mind, not after a day like that and never with Gregory, so he would wait until his Fox returned home.

******

_Can you make yourself available at 1900hrs? --MH_

_Make it 7:30. Team meeting at 6. Ta. --GL_

_Affirmative. Car will be waiting. Bring your Glock. --MH_

 

Greg shook his head and got into the shiny black limousine that stood waiting just outside the main entrance of New Scotland Yard.  How they always did that was beyond him.  Those black cars just appeared out of nowhere and managed to find an open spot exactly where they were supposed to pick him up.  Probably a built-in signal shooing other drivers away and flashing their own importance.  He had no idea where he was being taken, either, as Mycroft had not bothered to drop a hint, but such was the Holmes way.  Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft wasted much time explaining their intentions to the outside world.  John Watson and Greg both suspected it was but a dramatic build-up to the desired result but would never voice that to their Bonded.  Greg leaned back against the comfortable leather seats and leafed through the file he had taken with him to study later that evening.  Donovan had added her report along with the lab findings and the requested blow-ups of the crime scene photos.  He hoped the latter would help to shed light on the mysterious disappearance of mother and daughter.

It turned out to be a short ride and when Greg looked up, it took him a few seconds to realize they had stopped at Vauxhall Cross and he was to be dropped off at the SIS Headquarters.

“The hell...,” he muttered and Sent, _::…am I doing here, Myc? You there somewhere?::_

_::With you in a bit, I was held up, apologies. Agent Spalding will meet you inside.::_

He shrugged and got out of the car, nodding to the driver.  He straightened his jacket, all too aware of its crumpled state and made his way to the building’s entrance.  A dapper young man in an impeccable and very smart suit greeted him.

“Detective Inspector, welcome. I’m Agent Spalding and I’ve been assigned to you this evening.”

“Good evening, Agent Spalding, pleased to meet you. Assigned to me for what?”

Something like bewilderment shot across Spalding’s face before he forced his features back into a mask of professional neutrality.

“You’ve been booked into our shooting range until 9:30 p.m. because you wish to bring your aim to perfection.”

“My… aim,” Greg repeated slowly. “I see. Yes, I guess that’s become a necessity.” He made a face. “Well, I reckon it’s fair to assume you know exactly what needs to be done, and you’ve no doubt seen my pathetic results.”

Spalding allowed a brief smile to happen. “This will be handled with the utmost discretion, sir, make no mistake about that.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Greg said drily. “I have an idea where this comes from.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled at Spalding. “Let’s not waste precious government time then, shall we. You lead.”

He followed Spalding through a maze of corridors until they reached the training compound.  A set of earmuffs and eye protection were handed to him, and what followed was a more intense and effective lesson than he had ever had before.  It made his regular firearms courses look like sandbox games, and as he became more confident and his hands got steadier, the marks on the training silhouettes became less scattered.  Greg was secretly pleased with himself.  He would never be as good as John Watson who was a deadly shot, but he was fairly certain he would not fail his replicate test.  Manage to train here on a regular basis, and he might even become a good shot. He put his Glock away and looked at the target.

“Not bad at all,” Spalding nodded appreciatively and took off his earmuffs.

“Well done indeed,” a smooth voice said from behind them and Spalding snapped to attention. 

“Mr Holmes. Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Spalding.” Mycroft eyed the cardboard targets. “I see that my trust in teacher and student was not misplaced.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m the one who has to thank you, Spalding,” Greg cut in. “I should very much like to repeat that, if it’s at all possible. I don’t want to fail another test. Ever again.”

“I can’t see why you shouldn’t be allowed to train here every now and then. But it’s not for me to say,” he added hastily, casting a glance at Mycroft.

“You’re right, Spalding, it’s not for you to say. But I might be able to arrange something, if the inspector wishes to continue his weapons training.”

“The inspector wouldn’t mind, thank you for asking,” Greg said, a little tartly.  Mycroft shot him a sharp glance, then nodded his dismissal at the young agent.

“That will be all, thank you Spalding. Please report to my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning, I wish to discuss further proceedings with you. I’ll take it from here.”

“9 a.m. tomorrow,” Spalding repeated crisply. “Good night, Mr Holmes. Detective Inspector.”  He shook hands with Greg, then turned and left the row of cabins.

Greg crossed his arms and gave Mycroft a sinister look. “Would you mind sharing why you didn’t tell me about this… tutoring? You put me in an awkward position there for a moment. The Met turning to MI6 for shooting lessons. The suit boys treat us like a bunch of idiots anyway.”

“I have selected Spalding myself. He’s been on my personal team for three months now and is training under Anthea’s supervision. He will not breathe a word to anyone why you were here.”  He shrugged out of his jacket and Greg stared at the shoulder holster that had been hidden under the expensive material.

“You’re carrying?”

Mycroft looked at him with mild amusement. “You know very well I’m licensed to carry. And I knew you’d be here, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I practiced as well. Practice makes perfect, isn’t that what they say?”

“I’m sure you’re in dire need of practice,” Greg reached for his earmuffs and put them back on.  He put the small microphone in place and switched the intercom on. “John was most impressed. And that says something. John’s not easily impressed.”

Mycroft huffed and put the set of earmuffs on that Spalding had left behind.

“Let’s see what you’ve learnt so far, Gregory.”

Greg searched his face for signs of mockery but when he saw nothing but genuine interest in his progress, took his Glock out of its holster and turned to face the training silhouettes again, feet parallel and pointed toward the target.  With straight arms he pointed directly at the cardboard silhouette and fired a round of shots.

“Dead,” he said proudly.

“Mhm.” Mycroft pursed his lips. “I’d like to show you something.” He stepped up close until he was right behind Greg.  He reached around and placed his hands lightly on his upper arms. “May I?”

Because of the earmuffs, Greg heard the velvety voice through the intercom instead from up close but he felt Mycroft’s breath against his neck and a pleasant shiver tingled along his spine.

Mycroft nudged his feet apart so the gun-side foot was closer to the target. “Bend your knees a little, like his…” another nudge, against the back of his knees, “and lean your upper body forward, no, that’s too much…” Mycroft’s arms aligned with his and Greg could feel his body heat. “Yes, that’s good. Like this. Notice how your shoulders are closer to the target, and your hips are more forward than your knees?”

Greg especially noticed how Mycroft’s hips pressed against his buttocks, and the training targets started to lose their fascination as his attention focused elsewhere.

“Try again.” Mycroft’s breath tickled his skin. “And try hitting the targets to the left and right as well. Simply pivot your upper body as you engage the other targets.” He directed Greg’s upper body first to the left, then to the right. “Like this. Economy of movement. Think of your upper body as something of a gun turret.”

Greg swallowed nervously but forced his brain back to the task at hand, took aim once more and did as he was told.  Interestingly, the subtle change of positioning proved very effective and he made a pleased sound when he inspected the targets. “Look at this! Wow. And you know what? I think I’m not flinching anymore.”

“You’re not,” Mycroft confirmed. “At least not while I was looking. Very good indeed.”

Greg secured his Glock and put it back into the holster.  He gave Mycroft a challenging look. “Well, Major Holmes, care to show this humble policeman how it’s done properly?”

Mycroft shrugged and pressed a few buttons on the panel.  A bullseye target was lowered and positioned a lot farther from where Greg’s targets had been.  Greg sniffed.  “Don’t you want to warm up first?”

A haughty eyebrow was arched. “I don’t need to warm up.”

“Show-off.”

“I don’t need to show off, either.” He made a show of removing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves up.  Greg watched, transfixed, as pale skin and slender forearms were exposed and stood back when Mycroft removed his SIG from the shoulder holster and released the safety.  He turned sideways, spread his legs and assumed a one-handed stance.  Greg knew this was not the appropriate surrounding to eyeball another man's firm backside but he couldn’t help himself.  With the jacket removed, the tailored waistcoat and trousers accentuated Mycroft’s shoulders and slim hips, and the sight of his long legs spread like that made him wish, desperately, they were somewhere else.  Some of his blood rushed south and he felt his prick stir with interest.  _Oh no, not now_.  He groaned inwardly but it was a pink elephant situation.  He caught himself staring at Mycroft’s gun hand holding the SIG in a firm grip, and the memory of that hand curled around him in a firm grip, too, did not help him get his blood pressure under control.

Mycroft fired five shots and with a smug smile pushed the button that brought the target closer.  All bullseyes were neatly perforated.

“Tosser.”

Mycroft laughed and scrolled through the options. “Let’s find something that’s more of a challenge. Ah. Here.”

A row of pop up targets was lowered from the ceiling.  He assumed the stance he had shown Greg earlier, rather than the one-handed stance he had used for the bullseye target, but his upper body was held sideways, with the elbows flexed and pointed downward.  With his sharp blue-and-grey eyes narrowed, straight lips pressed together in a firm line and his tall frame tense as a bowstring, he looked nothing like the elegant politician he presented to the world.  Instead, Greg caught a glimpse of the trained killer who had left such a lasting impression on John Watson and he had to admit to himself that he was utterly turned on by this facet of Mycroft Holmes, his Bonded partner and lover.  He refused to think about what this might say about him.

When Mycroft secured his SIG and put it back into his shoulder holster, having made quick work of the targets and adding a few more holes into them, Greg removed earmuffs and eye protection, stepped up to Mycroft and yanked his protective gear off as well.  He grabbed his expensive silk tie and pulled him close.

“That,” he murmured in a voice thick with lust, “was so fucking hot.”

And before Mycroft had the chance to reply, smug, surprised or otherwise, Greg grabbed him by the back of his neck and claimed his mouth for a thorough kiss that left them breathless and wanting.

“Home. Now.” Greg commanded. “I need you to show me that knee bending and leaning forward thing again. And I’m not entirely sure I’ve fully understood the correct positioning of my gun.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft reached for his jacket. “There are a few firing techniques I should like to discuss with you….”

******

When Greg took his replicate test at the Met’s shooting range, not only did he do ‘not badly’, he excelled at it.

Mycroft had quite the knack for teaching efficient aiming and firing, and Greg proved to be a very willing student who didn’t shy away from applying the new techniques whenever there was a chance.

“Like this?”

_Oh God yes. Exactly like this._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wendymarlowe pointed out that Greg has never seen for himself if Mycroft really is the excellent shot he claims to be, and she flung the words _shooting range_ at me. I mulled over it on the train ride home and this is what I've come up with. Hope you'l have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Thanks for the wonderful idea, it was great to return to the silver fox AU.


	5. Function Check (Fox!Lestrade)

Greg Lestrade was not a nervous teenager anymore.  In fact, he wasn’t a nervous person at all.  And he had left his teenage years behind for longer than he cared to admit.  He was in his mid-forties, an experienced police officer, the Met’s Silver Fox, well respected amongst both Shifter and Were communities.  A Detective Inspector, damn it, and after the successful closure of the horrible filicide that had shaken the city, Detective Chief Inspector had suddenly become more than just a vague idea somewhere in his distant future.  He had no reason – none whatsoever – to be standing in the door of the sitting room, clenching and unclenching his fists, fighting the urge to chew his nails.  Sporting an erection that would have made a twenty-year-old proud.

The cause for his current desperate state was sitting on the couch, focussed on what he was doing, shield shut down, deaf and blind to anything but the task at hand.  Mycroft bloody Holmes.  His Bonded.  His lover.  His love.  Ex sniper, somewhere in the Government’s upper, well, _uppest_ echelon, powerful Anchor.  The man who knew how to make him fidget and squirm, and there was nothing Greg could do about it.  Nothing he wanted to do about it, to be honest.

So he remained where he was, rooted to the spot, transfixed, watching.  Watching Mycroft clean his Heckler & Koch sniper rifle.  On the coffee table.  In his waistcoat, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, no tie, collar open.  The gun lay disassembled on a wax cloth and the cleaning tools were neatly lined up.  Greg had never been gun crazy, always been a mediocre shot.  Well, that at least had changed since the day he had been summoned to the SIS’ shooting range.  Still, he wasn’t a gun person.  But this… 

Greg stood and watched as Mycroft attached the bore guide and inserted the cleaning rod that had a small brush at the tip.  After the small brush came the patches for a more thorough cleaning, and the cleaning rod went in and out in sure and steady movements.  Bolt and chamber were wiped clean with a cloth, quickly and efficiently, and when Mycroft’s hands gently slid along the gun’s sleek length, polishing it in slow circling motions, Greg’s breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes for a moment.

Mycroft put the gun back together swiftly and expertly to go through a brief function check.  His sharp blue-and-grey eyes narrowed in concentration as his fingers moved across the weapon’s body with practiced efficiency, and that’s when Greg started hurting.  He knew exactly what those fingers felt like when they held _him_ in a firm grip like that, knew it so well he almost sensed them caressing him, finding all of his sensitive spots, knew the sweet, burning sensation they caused when they started preparing and stretching him, and ah, when they curled inside him…  He bit his lower lip.

Mycroft disassembled his rifle one last time and put it back into its case, along with the cleaning utensils, and only when the locks snapped shut did he look up at Greg, taking in his state with one swift glance.  Nothing escaped his all-seeing eyes, and of course he had noticed his Bonded standing in the door.  Had Sensed him long before he had actually seen him but had chosen not to let him know, taking full advantage of the fact that he – unlike Greg – knew how to close his shield completely because his love was such a joy to tease.  So receptive, and so beautiful when aroused.  His dark eyes looked almost black with his pupils blown wide, and he was biting down on his lower lip.  Mycroft knew that if he stood close to him, he would be able to smell his arousal, too, musky, heady, and very much Gregory. 

He got up from the couch and as he walked towards him, he opened his shield.  A wave of desire and lust washed over him, shot through his system, quickened his pulse and made his trousers uncomfortably tight.  For as much as he enjoyed teasing, Mycroft enjoyed burning, and nothing made him blaze up as quickly as the sight of Greg’s dark eyes turn amber when they Shared.

“C’m’ere, you,” he said hoarsely, grabbed Greg by his arms and pushed him roughly against the door frame.  Their teeth collided and Greg’s lower lip cracked open but Mycroft licked across it and they both moaned.  Mycroft unfastened Greg’s belt, unzipped his trousers and snaked his hand into his briefs.  A whimper escaped Greg’s mouth and Mycroft sank to his knees, pulling Greg’s trousers and briefs down until they pooled gracelessly on the floor.

Mycroft hummed appreciatively.  “I don’t think this beauty needs checking. It looks well maintained and fully functioning. But I guess it won’t hurt to run a few tests.”

“Careful,” Greg warned in a weak voice, “it’s loaded.”

Puffs of air tickled Greg’s overheated skin and he gasped as Mycroft laughed softly.  His last coherent thought was that he didn’t remember seeing Mycroft apply his tongue to the barrel of his rifle, but then Mycroft’s mouth closed around the weeping tip and his right hand – his _gun-hand_ – slowly wrapped around the shaft and Greg’s brain shut down.  He blindly reached for the wall to steady himself and buried one hand in his partner’s soft auburn hair as Mycroft carried out a thorough function check on the Met’s most valuable weapon.


	6. Not a dog (Fox!Lestrade)

_::The answer is no.::_

“Gregory.”

_::Mycroft.::_

“Please?”

_::I’m not a dog, you know.::_

“I know that.”

_::So why are you even trying?::_

“Because it would be fun.”

Greg flattened his ears and snarled. _::It’s so degrading you would even ask.::_

“Come now, it’s not like I’m expecting you to fetch the newspaper.”

_::Well, at least there would be a point in that. I could read it too.::_

“Mhm.”

Mycroft straightened from where he had crouched down next to Greg, and they walked in silence for a while. Greg soon forgot the little grudge he’d been nourishing and cheerfully busied himself exploring foxholes (“Checking up on distant cousins, Gregory?” _::Shut up, Holmes.::_ ) and low shrubs. Shaking his head, Mycroft stopped and peered down at his Fox whose tail looked as if he’d been brushing the forest ground.

“Will you look at yourself?”

_::About time we tried that new brush you bought yesterday.::_

Mycroft’s right hand twitched, and the Fox stopped dead in his tracks.

“Come on, you want it, too.”

_::I do not.::_

An auburn eyebrow arched up as Mycroft gave his Fox a penetrating stare. Each fibre of Greg’s small body was tense with anticipation, ears pointing forward, tail twitching.

Mycroft’s arm shot forward and the Fox was off with lightning speed.

Chasing the ball.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first 221b :-)


	7. Ruffled Feathers (Owl!Mycroft)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For alyxpoe
> 
> This one's in direct relation to alyxpoe's story 'Take the Risk', and it just sort of happened after I read chapter 8 which you will find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3184253/chapters/7159133  
> For those of you who haven't read it (Read it! Now!!!) - Sherlock gets attacked by an Osprey and flees up a tree while in his Cat shape. The Owl comes to his rescue but it's a certain ex army doctor who picks the Cat up to take him home safely. I was wondering... what would it do to Mycroft, realising there's somebody else in his brother's life now? Here's what I think might happen.

“Spread,” Lestrade commanded and the Owl unfolded his wings. His wingspan was enormous but Lestrade had long become used to it and was not in the least intimidated. He inspected the feathers critically. “Only one wing feather missing.” He ran his hands across the wing bones and hummed when he found his Owl to be unharmed. “All good,” he confirmed and Myc folded his wings again.

 _::Of course it’s all good. Do you think I could have flown here on a broken wing?::_ Myc sounded indignant and Lestrade raised his hands in an apologetic gesture.

“Touchy, are we? What happened to you anyway? You look as if you got caught in a turbine.” He scratched above Myc’s massive beak and Myc flattened his tufts.

 _::Sherlock got attacked by an Osprey,::_ he said and Lestrade stopped scratching him.

“An Osprey? In London? I don’t remember hearing anything about Ospreys around here.”

 _::There are none within the London Community,::_ Myc confirmed and nudged Lestrade’s hand. Lestrade obediently continued scratching and moved from the Owl’s head to his back, smoothing the soft feathers and scratching between his wings. Myc half closed his round eyes and all but leaned into his Bonded’s hands that did more than just smooth his plumage. Lestrade’s hands were big and warm and gentle and did wonders for his ruffled feathers. Both sets of feathers – the real one and, even more importantly, the figurative one.

“Come on, Myc, there’s more to it than this other bird.” He caressed the downy chest feathers and chuckled when Myc opened one eye. “What’s upsetting you so?”

Myc shifted on his feet and moved closer, obviously debating whether to supply the truth or not.

“Well?” Lestrade playfully pulled at one of the tufts.

 _::Sherlock and Dr Watson seem rather close,::_ he finally said. _::Their Link has become very strong.::_

“And?”

_::I’m fairly certain they will soon form a Bond.::_

“But that’s good, isn’t it? It’s about time he has some stability in his life. No man’s an island, Mycroft, not even you Holmeses. Besides,” he leaned back against the cushions, “Watson seems an alright bloke and if he wants to take on the task of looking after your little brother, let him. You and I both know that Sherlock can be quite a handful, and he’ll find out soon enough.” He chuckled. “If he hasn’t figured it out already.”

Myc swivelled his head, pointedly looking the other way.

“Ah come on, Myc, aren’t you happy for him?”

_::Should I be happy? I’m not entirely certain.::_

“Are you jealous, Myc?” When there was no answer, he gently poked Myc’s chest. “You’re jealous,” he said, barely suppressed laughter in his voice. “If Sherlock Bonds with Watson, you won’t be his sole protector any longer.”

He pulled the Owl close. Myc remained rigid for a moment, then leaned against Lestrade and into the warmth of his solid body, a powerful magnet he was unable to resist, no matter what shape he was in.

“Don’t be,” Lestrade softly said. “Sherlock knows very well you will always be there for him although he’d rather chew his right hand off before he admits it.”

They sat in silence until Lestrade felt the large bird’s body relax against his, then he reached for the remote control and started flipping through the channels.

“Let’s see what’s on. I remember seeing an announcement of some period drama with ridiculous bonnets and polished Hessians. Ah,” he said in a satisfied voice and put the remote control down. “There we go. Cranford, yeah?” He made an amused sound. “Good God, look at that collar.”

 _::Sloppy necktie,::_ Myc remarked absent-mindedly and settled against Lestrade’s upper body more comfortably.

“See? I knew it would raise your spirits.”

 _::It’ll do.::_ Then, as if on second thought, _::Thanks, Greg.::_

“You’re welcome, Mycroft.”

 


End file.
